The family made an early night of it, and even Will, after a quick embrace in their little sanctuary, went off to bed and to sleep.
David lay awake for a long time. What were they going to do? What was
he
going to do—about Will, about Amelia and the other girls? How long was it going to be before an attempt was made on the Earl himself? He thought his father safe enough while he and Will were there, but they had all thought Virginia safe enough, there in her own room, watched by her maid.
Tomorrow, he would have to speak to Amelia about setting up some kind of watch. She would know which of the servants would be subtle enough to keep a discreet eye on the Earl without his knowledge. That should be possible; most of them were wary of Ronald anyway.
But that was only a stopgap, not a solution. He had to find a way to prove that Virginia had not accidentally fallen down those stairs. And Kitty Carter...perhaps someone in the village had seen something that might help. There had to be something.
He should think about watching his own back, too. But not tonight. He was too weary to even consider that.
It was a relief to pull up the covers, extinguish the candle, and dismiss his overwhelming worries into the night’s darkness.
* * * * *
The following morning, Will had a question of his own. As they sat in their dressing gowns near the fire, sipping chocolate, he said, too quietly to be heard by anyone in the hall, “Davy, what do you believe happened to your brother Mark? I have a notion, but you have never said precisely what you suspect.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because that might give us another direction in which to look. I gather you think he was shot from a distance, and the murderer used a second shot, from your brother’s own gun, to camouflage the fatal wound.”
David considered the description. “Yes. That’s it precisely. The first shot from hiding, probably the gazebo where we found the gunpowder. He might have stalked Mark from the cover of the woods, or simply waited there for a time.”
“But how did he know when to wait, and where? I have been turning that over in my mind, and it seems strange that anyone might lurk in such a remote area. He might have had to come back every day for weeks, and eventually someone would surely have noticed.”
“Oh, that’s no mystery. Mark had a few places that he particularly liked to hunt. The fishing pool was one of them—it’s open water, so game naturally goes there. And at that time of year, the very end of hunting season, if the weather was not completely foul, Mark would be out with a gun. He had his little ways—it always pleased him to put food on the table through his own efforts. A fowl from the barnyard was my father’s beneficence; a pheasant brought down by his own skill was Mark’s accomplishment—
his
contribution to the family.”
Will nodded. “So the killer knew that the time was right, and a few days’ surveillance was likely to bring him there.”
“Yes—and you’ve help me understand why I was suspicious from the start. No one would know all those things but a member of this household, and
cui bono?”
“I wish that got us any closer to proving any of it,” Will said.
“I wish we had been here.”
“Just as well we were not. I wouldn’t wish either of us under suspicion!”
“No, but if I’d been able to see the body—” A wave of grief swept over him, and David suddenly found his vision blurred by tears. “Sorry—sorry to be so foolish. It’s just struck me, Will. Until now, my brother’s death has not felt real. But I just now realized I’ll truly never see him again.”
“I felt that way when my father died,” Will said. “Most of the time it was not quite real, then without warning it was too real to bear. It will pass, in time.”
“But there’s no time for sorrow now,” David said impatiently, wiping his face. “I’ll mourn later. What I was thinking was that if I’d been able to see his clothing, I might have noticed if anything was wrong, whether there were powder burns—there should have been—or any other sign that things were not as they seemed.”
“There was an inquest…”
“And an obvious verdict. He was out alone; no one in the household bore him any malice. With everything to live for and a child on the way, possibly a son at last, it could not have been suicide. A freak accident would be the simplest way to explain it. No one would look for evidence of the murder of a man who had no enemies and nothing in his pockets to steal.”
Will nodded. Then he asked, “Who prepared the body?”
“I don’t know. My mother would. Amelia might know, too, but I’d rather not cause either of them any further grief. But I think there’s someone besides my mother who’d have the answer.”
* * * * *
“Master Da—I mean, Lieutenant Archer. What may I do for you, sir?”
He smiled. “You needn’t cosset my vanity, Kirby. Is my mother awake?”
With a glance at the bedroom door, the maid answered, “I’m sorry, sir, but she’s been sound asleep for a good while now, and may rest until dinnertime.”
“I thought she might be sleeping.” He moved into the room anyway, keeping his voice low. “I should prefer not to distress her, but there was something I wished to know. On the day my brother died, after the doctor left...can you tell me what happened that day?”
“What do you mean, sir?” The considering look she gave him made David think she had some suspicion of his purpose. Kirby had known David Archer since he was born. She had begun at Grenbrook as an ordinary housemaid, been pressed into service when his mother’s maid and many of the other servants had been laid low with influenza, and had shown a talent for the work as well as a level head. Now in her forties, Kirby ranked with Leland and Mrs. Hubbard in the top echelon of importance among the servants. Lady Grenbrook relied on Kirby, and had never uttered a word of complaint about her.
“I know that when someone dies, the women of the household...prepare the body for burial.” This was harder to speak of than he had expected. No doubt it had been harder still for those who’d had the doing of it. “Do you know who performed that last service for my brother?”
“Well, I did, sir, most of it. Your lady mother meant to—she did for your brother George, who was taken when he was only two, and she meant to send her other boy along with her own hands.”
David knew of George, but that lost brother had been born and died several years before Amelia came along. He had never really thought about what that loss had meant to his mother. “She’s game clear through.”
“Aye, sir, but this time, it was more than her heart could bear. We’d only begun when she was overcome and had to sit down where she could not see...it was hard, sir, her oldest son and all. Two of the other maids helped me, and once we had him washed and a bandage wrapped round those horrible wounds…” She looked away and swallowed.
“Do you have any spirits in the room, Kirby?” he asked. “It might do you good—”
“There’s only sherry, sir, but I’m all right. I’ve not much more to tell you. We bandaged Lord Mark up and got him into his Sunday best, and then the men came and carried him out to the parlor.”
“Did you examine his clothing?” David saw the sherry and glasses, on a low table near the bedroom door, and decided that if she did not need medicinal assistance, he did. But he poured some for her anyway, and she did not refuse a second time.
“Bless you, sir, what was there to see? He’d bled something terrible, poor man, and his coat all over holes from the shot. I never looked any closer than I had to. We only wanted to be done with it and lay him to rest.”
Well, that was really no more than he should have expected. “What of Dr. Fiske? Did he examine the body before you washed it?”
Kirby shook her head. “That I do not know. I was with her ladyship when Dr. Fiske was here. Death by misadventure was what the coroner said, and the doctor testified that he’d died of a—well, you know all that, sir.”
“Yes.” He sighed. It had only been a slim chance, at best. “So his clothes...were they burned, then?”
Kirby glanced at the door, and lowered her voice even further. “No, sir. I should have done that, I know, but your lady mother ...she would not have it. I can’t say why she would do such a thing—she’s never asked to see them since—but she told me to put them aside and keep them safe, and so I did.”
* * * * *
“She had them stowed away, Will,” he said, pushing the door of his room shut with one elbow. “I told her not to let anyone know we’d had that little talk, for her own safety. I must get these back to her as soon as possible.”
“At least there’s nothing remarkable about you visiting your mother,” Will said, “and I can act as lookout when you return them. Is it safe to inspect the things here?”
“I saw no one in the hall just now,” David said. “I think we must trust our luck. But in your room, if you don’t mind—and let us lock the door.”
He had not expected the smell of battle here in the peaceful countryside, but as he unwrapped the old sheet Kirby had used to cover the bundle he recognized the rank scent of it. He spread the sheet out on the writing desk near the window in case any dried crusts fell off the clothing, as they were likely to, and separated the stiff, wrinkled garments. The breeches were horribly bloodstained but undamaged. The rust-colored shirt, once clean white linen, was in shreds.
“They must have had to cut it off him,” Will said, grimacing. “What of the coat?”
That, too, was stiff with blood, the front of it so perforated that it seemed about to fall to pieces. David laid it out on the table as carefully as he could. A fowling piece fired at close range would do that, he supposed—and he could see that there were powder burns, as one might expect from so near a blast.
Will knew what that meant, too. “So the gun did discharge point-blank, not from any distance.”
“Apparently not.” David closed his eyes. Will said nothing, but he hardly needed to. Whatever he might believe, or wish to believe, this damage told the story clearly enough. The gun had gone off somehow, killing Mark, just as everyone had said all along. “Very well, then. I still hate to see Ronald as heir, and I still want to know where he was the night Virginia fell, but I’m glad to see this. Bad enough to lose one brother without knowing the other murdered him.” He folded the upper half of the coat over, and froze.
There, in the very center of the back, was a hole.
A bullet hole. Not a rip made in falling, not a tear from a stray bit of shot. A round, neat hole, the sort that looked so insignificant until you looked on the other side of the body to find the exit wound.
Mark had been killed by a bullet in the back. David Archer looked up, and met Will Marshall’s eyes.
“Davy,” Will said in the stunned silence, “Forgive me for ever doubting you.”
“It’s proof to you,” David said, “and to me too. But it will never be sufficient for my father.”
“Would it be sufficient for the Coroner?”
“Go to him, over my father’s head?”
“If we must.”
“Let me think on that, Will. Please. I am not certain I could take that step.”
Will started to say something, but only shook his head. “Wrap those back up, then, and be certain Kirby hides them well—and warn her that her life might depend on keeping them secret. We must wait and see what develops.”
Chapter Fourteen
The next development, damning evidence that Will thought ought to be sufficient for even a Grand Jury, arrived in the mail the following afternoon. Sir Percy had paid a king’s ransom to send a copy of the current
Naval Gazette,
and enclosed within it was the answer to a question Will had known must eventually be asked.
“
Inquiries reveal that the officer in question was released from duty on 15
th
December in order to travel to his family home in Devon. There is no indication of his presence at his lodgings in London from that date to the present. His horse was taken from its usual livery stable, also on that date, and has not yet been returned.
It has been suggested by two fellow officers that this gentleman retired to the country to gather resources to deal with debts of honor, and there is no suggestion that he was expected to fail in this purpose. No attempt has been made, at this point, to confirm or deny this rumor.
This is all the information available with a discreet preliminary investigation. Please advise if more detail is required.”
“Dear God,” said Lady Amelia, holding the sheet of parchment as though she expected it to turn into a serpent.
“So you wrote to Sir Percy after all,” Davy said. “And I presume you did it immediately after we both explained to you why we could not make such an inquiry.”
He did not sound as angry as Will had expected. “Yes, I did. I apologize to you both, but it seemed to me that until we had either confirmed or disproved the claim that he had been in London, we had nothing on which to base any hypothesis.”
“If Father should find out…” Lady Amelia said. “How could we ever explain?”
“Your brother Mark is dead,” Will said bluntly, “and now so is his wife. A young woman from the village vanished from her home and was found, also apparently dead from a fall, after she hinted to us that she knew Ronald had been back here sooner than he claimed to be. I hate to state the obvious, my lady, but at some point your father will have to find out about this. He must be informed that his son’s alibi is nothing more than a fabrication.”